I'm a writer of erotic fiction, mostly of a paranormal/fantasy bent. Welcome to my Blog! I aim to post at least every 2 days. Adults only please ... you know the drill. All commenters welcome. All text copyright Janine Ashbless unless otherwise stated.

Wednesday, 31 May 2017

In Greenwich, London, on the Thames bank and right next to the international date line, is a bloody big tent that used to be called The Millennium Dome and is now officially the O2. I was there last Saturday, on a beautiful sunny afternoon, to see Iron Maiden in concert.

You walk on a springy rubber mat that bounces like a trampoline (you are not supposed to bounce), and you're clipped to a safety line for the ascent and descent, which are actually pretty steep.

At the apex you can unclip and take photos and admire the panorama of London's docklands:

The structure is an exercise in sacred geometry, btw. The canvas dome has 12 supporting struts (one for each month of the year), is 365m across (for the days of the year) and 52m high (for the weeks). And Up At the O2 are celebrating their 5th anniversary on the 21st June (Summer Solstice) although the first public event within the canopy was actually staged on 24th June 2007 ... which is St John's Day, the traditional Midsummer.

Monday, 29 May 2017

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!Today's teaser is from my M/M short storyReckless, which appeared ingay romance anthology, The Handsome Prince.

The prince just grins. “Stop being sulky, Tancred.” He clasps my face firmly, framing it in his hands, looking me in the eyes. “I know how much you’ve done for me. I haven’t forgotten. I appreciate every bit.” Then he swoops in and plants a kiss on my lips. It’s a firm, quick, masculine kiss – a prince’s benison. The sort of intimacy only royalty gives one the right to bestow.

Once more I hear the thunder of the boar’s feet.

I react without thinking, just as in the woods. Reaching round, my hand grips the back of Alberic’s neck, holding him so that he can’t pull away. My mouth seizes his. Angrily. Needfully. For a moment I know nothing but his lips, his tongue, the taste of the wine he’s been drinking, the taint of my own blood. For a moment he does not react. Then he tries to pull back – and I hold him, refusing to let him go. I am too hungry for his mouth.

I don’t know why I do it. It just happens.

Eventually he pushes me hard in the chest and we break with a gasp.

“What was that?” His voice is a hoarse whisper.

God have mercy on me, I say to myself, my eyes suddenly opened to my actions. What had I been thinking of? I’m as shocked as he is, but unlike Alberic I’m stunned into a kind of resignation. My voice sounds unfamiliar as I say the unsayable: “That was love, sire.”

The blow takes me by surprise: back-handed across the face and hard enough to stagger me. I put my hand up to my cheek. He’s in a panic, I tell myself. He has no idea how to react to such a shock. I have always been like his elder brother.

“Get on your knees, vassal!”

I obey. I feel sick, the conflicting instincts tearing at each other inside me. I half expect Alberic to strike me again, but he throws up his hands instead.

“This is a joke, isn’t it? A sick joke!” My one blessing is that Alberic isn’t shouting: his voice is raspy with strain but kept deliberately quiet. If he does start shouting at me then there are plenty of people within earshot who would hear everything.

“No joke, sire.”

“But I’ve seen you! With women!”

“Women are,” I shrug, unable to say out loud I did what was expected of me; “... all very well. But it’s you alone that I love.”

“You want to fuck me?”

I don’t answer. Yes, I want to fuck him. I want to wrap him in my arms and feel his hot hard muscles contesting mine. I want to be inside him and him to be in me. I want to feel his strength and his eagerness and his appetite. I want to taste him: his spunk and his sweat, his tears and his kisses.

I cannot say that. I don’t have to. He reads it in my eyes.

“How dare you?” I’ve never seen Alberic look so distressed. The blood has risen in an unbecoming flush to his face. “How...?” he chokes. “You want to play the woman for me, do you?” He fumbles at his insulted crotch. “You want this, do you? You like it?’ Unlacing his hose, he pulls out the member in question. ‘Then suck my cock. Kneel there and take it.”

It’s half-hard, I see, and my heart wallops painfully against the inside of my breastbone. If he thinks he’s humiliating me then he has misjudged badly. I’ve fantasised about his cock for years. I’ve seen it when he’s undressed, when we swim together, when he makes water; I’ve seen it shrivelled with chill, and all perky of a morning, and long and silky and relaxed when he stretches his body out after exercising. His prick is almost as familiar to me as my own, and a ghostly accompaniment to my every erection. How can I recoil now, when there are nights I’ve lain in my bed and tasted my own semen on my fingers and pretended it was Alberic’s?

“There.” He’s nearly crying. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” And he shoves it into my face and thrusts it into my unresisting mouth. Soft skin; thick meat wrapped in satin. It is my first. Strange to think that I’ve never had a man in my mouth before; I’ve never dared risk the public shame, the destruction of my life at his side. It tastes unfamiliar – musky, sweaty, faintly pissy – and yet my mouth fastens upon it with instinctive appetite. And though it’s easily manageable at first, so that I can engulf the whole thing and lap at his scrotum with my tongue, it doesn’t stay that way. In moments it’s thickening, lengthening, hardening. I have to move back as it fills my mouth and nudges into my throat.

Merciful God, but it excites me. Every thrust of his makes my own cock jump and swell. I grab at myself through the cloth of my hose, knowing that I have an inexcusable hard-on already, should he look down. Can he tell how eager my sucking is, how grateful? That the tears he has forced to my eyes are not simply testament to how he is choking me with his polearm?

Alberic gasps my name. His spread hands frame his crotch as he thrusts clumsily into my mouth. He’s hard now: really hard: his weapon set and braced like a boar spear. I get one hand on his cock just to gain myself breathing space, and he freezes. My tongue traces the slit of his glans, tasting a slippery ooze there, exploring the tiny wrinkled delta of his frenum until he moans in his chest. The noise is half protest, half plea.

It is a signal that changes everything.

I rise to my feet, his shaft still gripped in my fingers. We are matched in height as well as in physique, so we lock gazes eye-to-eye. There is no anger in him any more: I’ve sucked it all out of him and taken it for my own. There is only fear in his wide eyes, and need. I can still taste his cock on my bruised lips. The scent of him is intoxicating. I give his prick a little tug, caressing the ball of my thumb across his slippery glans. The tilt of his hips tells me I have him captive. The emerald on the ring he’s gifted me gleams.

Friday, 26 May 2017

I was asked in an interview during my last blog tour what it was that I'd like to write but haven't done yet. And I said that I'd like to write some real erotic *horror* - not "dark fantasy", but no-holds-barred horror. Which would make for an, ahem, interesting combination with erotica, because there is WAY more (self-)censorship in the erotica genre. As a society we're far more scared of being corrupted by sex than by violence.

Anyhoo, this last week or so while I've been away from the blog I've been writing a longish short story which is definitely Erotic Horror. And should break several rules of good taste. And might be a bit triggery.

Monday, 22 May 2017

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!Today's guest isEmmanuelle de Maupassant with an excerpt from her hot new noveletteViking Thunder - which is on sale now but also available FREE until the end of May.

A storm brings the Northmen’s ship ashore.Elswyth struggles to remain independent, but cannot deny her sexual attraction to Eirik, nor the satisfaction she finds in his bed.

I saw the power of his body. His head almost touching the cross beam of the ceiling, his shoulders double the width of most men. His abdomen was hard, muscled. Most striking of all, his upper body was thickly patterned in dark blue-green patterns, interlocking, covering all his arms, as if he wore sleeves upon his skin. Designs stretched across his upper chest, and continued up his neck.

I’d never seen such a thing, such a man.
He smiled to see me look, and his cock gave a small leap. When he laughed, it was not as before, to command the approval of a crowd, but because the amusement was his.

Faline wasted no time. With a toss of her head, she stripped herself and climbed into my bed, pulling the soft furs to her neck. There was malice and mischief in her defiance.

Outside, the thunder rolled closer and, when Eirik spoke, it was as if his voice were a continuance of its resonance.

“Here.”

I was drawn to the strength of him, to the force of his body and the power that I knew was his.
Once close enough, his fingers pulled at the laces of my costume, dexterous, despite their size. One by one, the garments dropped, or were pulled over my head.

I shivered in my nakedness, feeling the touch of his eyes upon me, their roaming of my skin, and the nearness of his body.

My husband had been a perfunctory lover, interested only in his own satisfaction, and as likely as not to give me a clout about the head as he entered me. Moreover, his bedding was a quick matter, over almost as soon as it had begun.

My grandmother had told me that I must be patient. Love would grow with time and, with it, pleasure, but it had not.

I had no idea what it was to love. I had loved a dog we kept from a puppy, and the lambs I’d raised one spring, when their mother had abandoned them. I’d felt nothing of the kind for a man: not for my husband and not for this Northman. His arrogance was insufferable, yet I burned for him.

He knelt, pressing his mouth first to one breast and then the other, taking not only my nipple but the whole orb into his mouth. His warm tongue worked with his teeth, to pull and tease, sending a spasm through my cunt. His hands grasped my buttocks and I felt a rush of desire. His warriors had raped and killed and stolen, and yet I could think only of my need to feel him inside me.

And then he was lifting me in his arms, to lay me upon the bed, pushing my legs apart. His cock loomed above, and his balls, large and heavy. The muscles of my sex contracted in anticipation.

I’d quite forgotten about Faline, but felt now her hands upon my shoulders, pulling me further up the bed. I struggled, indignant, but she pinned me at the upper arms, placing her weight upon me.

Faline’s legs were open behind my head, so that I smelt her, active as she had been.

She exchanged a look with Eirik, one of knowing, of encouragement. Whether I liked it or not, she was to be the third in my bed and take her share.

I’d expected Eirik to push himself into me, to begin the fucking he must intend. I knew the sex act well enough. Instead, he raised my hips to his waiting mouth.

I’d never felt a man’s tongue inside me. I would have twisted away, but that he held me tight. His laughter hummed against my sex, and then he ran his tongue through my slit, finding the nub I would press when I lay still at night.

I sighed in longing, wrapping my legs about his head, drawing him down further. His tongue gave me more pleasure than my husband’s member had ever done.

What a strange thing for a man to do, I thought. For what enjoyment is there in this for him?

But enjoyment there must have been, for his mouth ate me as ravenously as the wolf will take a goose, feathers and all. And I, the goose, was only too willing to be devoured. Such moans escaped me.

When he raised his face, I caught a glimpse of something darker: the desire to pursue his lust.

Keeping my hips raised to him, he aligned his cock to my gaping wetness, holding me firm beneath my buttocks. I felt the first nudge of his swollen head, and then he entered, as smooth and easy as a knife through freshly set butter.

A crack of lightning broke directly overhead, so bright that it lit through the gap around the door. A deep, resonant rumble of thunder filled the room.

“Thor is watching us,” gasped Eirik. “Beating his hammer across the heavens for all to hear.”

He sank his cock into me once more.

“Hear Thor! He approves of our union.”

I opened to the length of him, his girth stretching me sweetly as it slid deep. His thrusts rolled into me, swivelling and grinding upwards, his cock pressing where I most desired it. His abdomen flexed with each stroke, and then he was bellowing, sending his cock on a final thrust of pulsing victory, filling me with his seed.

My voice began to rise, as I approached a place of searing pain and pleasure. I could not retreat. And then, I was no longer in the room but carried from my body, seeing white light. His head thrown back, Eirik gave a triple wolf howl and began to laugh.

Emmanuelle tells us, “This is my first foray into Viking territory and I can't begin to tell you how much fun it was. There are two things that turn me aflutter: one is brains (I've had a thing about clever old Sherlock since watching Basil Rathbone in the original black and white films); the other is pure physical brawn. Give me Conan the Barbarian, give me Ragnar and Rollo in the Vikings series, give me Chris Helmsley as Thor in the Marvel Comic films. There is something in me that responds, at the basest animal level, to physical, overpowering strength - the sort that comes from wielding an axe in battle. I want the throw down!

It was an utter joy to write my own Viking, Eirik. Of course, this being a romance, I've given him other qualities besides brute strength. My heroine discovers that he's not only a magnificent (and inventive) lover but is loyal to his men, and proud of his warrior heritage.

‘Viking Thunder’ is a story of sexual awakening, independence and identity.

What else can I say? It features a whole lot of Vikings, and some volcanic-level sex!”

Wednesday, 10 May 2017

Well, 2017 is turning out to be The Year My Erotica Publishers Folded. First Ellora's Cave, at the very start of the year, then Samhain in March - and now Sweetmeats.

I am pretty depressed about this one. I loved the covers and production values at Sweetmeats, and I loved Named and Shamed - hands down the most wildly filthy novel I have ever written and made even more shocking by its interior illustrations by John LaChatte. It got 5/5 for story and 5/5 at BDSM Book Reviews!

Monday, 8 May 2017

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!Today's guest is Lea Bronsen, with an excerpt from her new releaseFiery 10-16, a scorching firefighter tale of desire, abuse and bravery.

Runo Wiggins is a scarred man, the wounds etched into his psyche deeper than those on his skin. But he loves his job: fighting fires helps reenact his survival of a house fire as a teen, one that killed his mother and brutal stepfather.

Dawn Caravello is married to a psychotic drunk. She can take his beatings as long as he doesn't touch their children, and she'll do anything to put food on the table, even if it means stealing from the town hero.

When Runo meets the fiery Dawn, sparks fly. But he suspects she is victim of the same abuse as his mother was. As day turns to night, the past and the present blend in an exhausting, nerve-wrecking chase to prevent another death.
After everyone had left the showers, Runo found a folded towel on a shelf, wrapped it around his waist, and walked back to the empty locker room.

A silhouette appeared in the door.

Dawn.

So damn sexy in her black mold-to-her-body dress.

What did she want?

Her shiny gaze wandered down his chest and abs, and stopped at crotch level.

Ah.

Holding his breath, he sat on a bench with his elbows on his knees and stared back.

She wanted him, but he should ignore it. She was going through emotional distress and might do something she’d regret later.

He still motioned for her to come over. They were both adults. Whatever happened, he would put on account of exhaustion. And the fact he’d been fired. That she’d left her husband. Nothing wrong with a little mutual comforting.

She obeyed, moves slow and cat-like, and sat on his lap.

He circled her slim waist with a hand and fisted her hair with the other, pulling her face down to his. Their open mouths collided. Driven by need, he sucked on her lip, then dove in, his tongue seeking hers. She smelled, tasted, and felt like fucking heaven, and he wanted more, more. Beneath the towel, his cock thickened and lengthened.

She took his hand from her waist and brought it to a breast. He weighed its fullness and firmness in his palm. Perfect. Needing to taste her warm skin, he reached for the top of her dress and tugged until the garment slid off her shoulder, exposing a hard, dark brown nipple. Enticing. He leaned forward to lick and suck the bud into his mouth.

She moaned and spread her legs, causing her dress to glide up her thighs. She took his hand again and brought it to her panties. Whew, so fucking hot and wet. He was on a roll, couldn’t stop. Mouth closed on her nipple, he continued to suck while diving two fingers inside her wet hotness. She clenched her inner muscles around him, jerked her head back, and let out another moan.

Loving that he could provoke such a reaction, he gazed at her sweaty face and grinned, relishing the sight of the aroused and astoundingly sexy woman on his lap. His inflated cock pushed against the towel; she had to feel it pressing beneath her thighs. With two fingers still pumping inside her, he moved his thumb to her clit and toyed, rubbed in circles. She writhed on his thighs, danced to the rhythm of his playing fingers, her moves so intense he had to hold her with his free arm so she didn’t fall off his lap. Her intoxicating scent of arousal drifted to his nose, enhancing his own building pleasure, and the rolling movements of her thighs rubbed the tip of his cock back and forth. Jesus, she was on fire. A pussycat on fire.

She whimpered, her breaths coming out harsh and short. “Harder. Faster. Please!”

He pulled out of her wetness, grabbed her tiny bundle of nerves with his thumb and index finger, and squeezed. In response, she shot her hips in the air and trembled. So near the edge. A little more—he dove for her breast, caught her nipple between his teeth, and bit. She came then, arching her back like a bent bow, mouth open in a silent scream.

Wanting to enjoy her climax to the fullest, he dipped a finger inside her convulsing pussy again. The contractions of her inner muscles combined with her rhythmic rubbing of his cock undid him. His balls tightened and hot cream shot through his rock-hard length in quick pulses. He had to be spraying through half the locker room. His mind blackened and he barely held back a groan.

“Wiggins!” the chief called from somewhere distant.

Oh, fuck.

“Quick.” Not having time to catch his breath, Runo pulled his finger out of Dawn and pushed her off his lap. “Go.”

She staggered to a corner and flattened her dress, moves panicky.

Seconds later, Captain Norton stood in the door. “There you are.” His cold and sharp voice cut through the awkward silence as he stared from Runo to Dawn.

Monday, 1 May 2017

Every Monday I post a naughty scene for your entertainment!Today's excerpt is a bit special. To mark my completion of The Prison of the Angels, here's a preview excerpt:

Jean Delville: L’Allégorie de l’Enfer, 1899

At that moment I heard Egan’s door thump open on the opposite side of the corridor. I caught my breath and braced myself for the crash of his fists on my own door.

Oh no. My dream. I was only dozing. I didn’t—did I?

But there was silence.

I sat hearing only the race of my own heartbeat. No accusations; not even the sound of his feet stomping away down the hall. Just silence.

What is he waiting for?Me?

I pushed myself to my feet, pulled on a tank top shirt just long enough to afford me some decency, and went to the door. I could feel a trickle of sweat running down between my breasts. The handle felt slippery under my fingers.

Egan was standing on the other side of the door, one muscular arm braced against the frame, wearing nothing but the pair of gray briefs he’d presumably gone to bed in. The sight nearly sent me into meltdown then and there. His expression was grim, but not a word passed his lips. His pupils were still horribly dilated.

I searched his face for any sign of light, but saw none. It was the expression, I thought, of a man who had heroically fought the good fight against his inner demons—and lost. I took a step backward into my room and he followed me, pushing the door to behind him.

Are we going to fight? To kiss? To talk? I don’t want to talk. Not now. I want you to touch me.We stood wordless in that dim yellow light, like we were stuck in amber.

Then I looked down. I wasn’t jiggling about naked in the snow now; just clad in a sleeveless top that was so tight my erect nipples drew a bar across the stretched cotton. Egan wore even less. And unless he had taken to smuggling a length of lead pipe sideways under his briefs, he was finding even that garment uncomfortably constricting. He loomed so close to me that I didn’t even have to step forward to put my hand on that imprisoned shaft and feel it kick against my palm.

Oh. He’s had enough of dreams and teasing. He needs sorting out. Now.

I looked up into his eyes, wondering if he would say anything, and wondering what I should say. But we’d run out of words, both of us.

Did he want me to carry on where I’d left off in the snow? To bend over the bed? He was hard and burning under my hand as I squeezed him through the soft cotton. Oh. Oh. Oh.

He stooped a little, just enough so that his cheek brushed mine, his breath on my ear and neck. I’m used to thinking of myself as tall and gangly, no delicate flower—but it suddenly came home to me how much bigger he was, so much muscle and bone. And that was before I recalled his history of extreme violence. It rather appalled me now to think how I’d had the gall to tease him; we’d shared rented rooms and a pup-tent and even a bed in our journeys together, and I’d never given him enough credit for his restraint, or his honor, or his kindliness.

He could have had me at any time.

Oh, that thought made me run wet.

I’d had my fill of taunting him, for the moment. Now I wanted to give him everything he needed. Keeping one hand on his Calvins and running the other down the glorious hard undulation of his torso, I sank to my knees until my hands could meet. My lips pressed the flat wall of his stomach. Then I slipped my fingers under the elastic of his briefs and pulled them down. His cock bounced free hard enough to give my face a hot, silky slap.

Oh you beauty…

I took him in my mouth, all the way, and I heard the quietest of sighs he uttered. That was all he did for a long moment; just stand there, almost motionless, as I sucked gratefully at his strong, beautiful length.

Then he touched my cheek. “Is that all you want?” he rasped.

No. Not all.

My mouth was too full to talk, so I shook my head. Only when I’d wrapped a hand firmly around his girth did I release him from my lips, and used my hand to pull him with me, step by step, as I crawled backward across the floor.

The Book of the Watchers 3: The Prison of the Angels

Fierce Enchantments - re-released!

Named and Shamed - re-released!

About Me

Erotic fiction writing: it's not as wild and glamorous as you think. I spend a lot of time trying to keep my semicolons under control; I love the little beggars, but no one else does. I also worry about hyphenation - Blow-job? Blow job? Blowjob? - and am addicted to Spider Solitaire.

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Work in Progress

I've started on a 4-part serial of erotic/magical novellas, Lovers' Wheel. Summer Seduction and Falling Deep have both been published by Ellora's Cave. The two sequels will be called When Winter Comes and Joys of Spring.

The last of the fallen angel trilogy that started with Cover Him with Darkness, and In Bonds of the Earth, is soon to be published by Sinful Press. This third volume in the Book of the Watchers trilogy will be called The Prison of the Angels.